Blood Brother
by hallescomet97
Summary: Roger is coming home from Santa Fe. He's ecstatic, having realized his love of Mimi and found his one song glory. Yet how will the rocker react when he walks in to find his room mate doing something he shouldn't? What will happen then? A story of the two men who are brothers in all except blood. Warning: self harm. Mentions of past character deaths and suicides I DON'T OWN RENT!
1. Home Sweet Home-Roger

It was the end of November. He'd left New York the end of October. It had taken him less than a month to realize that leaving was a mistake. That he still loved Mimi and she needed him. Only a few weeks in Santa Fé, and he'd found his song, the inspiration for which was back in the big apple. He had decided. It was time for him to go home.

He packed his bags and his new guitar and rode out of Santa Fé in his beat up old/new car. He drove from dawn till dusk, stopping only for food, sleep, and sporadic breaks to pee and take his AZT. Whenever he stopped, he always jotted down lyrics and notes for his song. It was still a work in progress, but he was proud of the way it was coming together. With his determination of driving, the trip that before had taken him a week he did in a matter of days.

The feeling that washed over him as he entered New York city limits was euphoric. When he left, New York had seemed like hell. Now, it felt like home. When he left, Santa Fé seemed like paradise. It still was, but it would never feel truly right unless he had his friends there with him. Home is where the heart is, and his heart lived in New York with his bohemian family.

He wanted to head back to the loft right away, but he knew he couldn't. He had some errands and things he had to do first. He drove to the clinic and picked up a new bottle of AZT, knowing without a doubt Mark would have his hide if he saw how low Roger was running it. Next, he went to the music store. His new guitar was nice, but really not his style. The man at the counter, Tristan, looked up and smiled warmly. He was an old band mate of Roger's and a good friend too.

"I knew you'd be back" Tristan said warmly, "Took longer than I thought it would, but I knew you'd come home eventually."

Roger nodded and put up the guitar. "Got this in Santa Fé. It's nice, but it's not my kind of thing."

Tristan smirked, "Oh I know. I think THIS is more you." He reached underneath the counter and pulled out a guitar. Not just any guitar either. It was Roger's Fender.

Rog stared in shock. This wasn't possible. That Fender couldn't be his. He'd sold it at least a week before he left. He expected someone else to buy it within a day. He looked at Tristan. "Is that..."

Tristan nodded, "Yup. It's your baby. Saved it for you. Like I said. Knew you'd be back sometime. I know how much this old thing means to you. Trust me. I only let you sell this little beauty off to me because I knew you'd regret it later, and I'd rather it be here in my store where I could keep it safe for you than in some dirty old pawn shop where it'd get broken and sold off to some yahoo for nowhere near the real value. I've kept it here under the counter, safe and sound, because I knew that once you came to your senses, you'd want the old thing back."

Roger couldn't help himself. He reached over the counter and gave his old band mate a hug. "Thank you Tristan. I...I never thought I'd see it again. I honestly don't know how to repay you. I owe you more than money with this one dude."

Tristan smiled and hugged the rocker back. "Hey. It's what friends do. And on the money front, don't even TRY to give me cash for this thing. It's yours. Always has been, always will be. If you really wanna buy it back, lets just do a trade. You get your old Fender, I get the Santa Fé acoustic. Sound good?"

Roger nodded. Both men knew the Fender was monetarily worth much more than the Acoustic, but it was silently understood that those sorts of things didn't matter. The trade was purely symbolic. As he handed the acoustic over to Tristan, he was trading in Santa Fé for New York. He gently picked up his Fender. It fit naturally into his hands. It belonged there, the same way Roger belonged here. New York was his place. He was home.

Tristan sighed contentedly at the sight. "Now that's how things should be. The musician and his instrument. It's a bond that can't be touched. So, you've 'paid' me for the Fender. Now, I know a perfect way for you to started repaying me for the favor"

Roger looked up, eyebrow quirked in question. He knew Tristan would never ask him to do anything too serious, but still he was slightly worried at how Tristan had worded that sentence. "And what exactly would that be?"

Tristan chuckled softly and shook his head before looking at Roger. "Relax Davis. I was just gonna ask to hear a song on that piece of beauty. It's been a long time since I heard you play Rog. I don't care if it's that god forsaken Musetta's Waltz, just wanna hear a song."

Roger smiled, "That I can do. Actually, I'm working on a song at the moment. It isn't done yet, but tell be what you think."

Roger lay his fingers softly across the strings and strummed. He sighed, basking in the sound he'd come to miss. He then started in on the song. It wasn't done. It wasn't much. But it was his song.

Tristan leaned against the counter, smiling softly as he listened. Roger was a real talent. Alway had been, always would be. He'd missed that. The nostalgia washed over him listening to the music. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture the green room at CBGBs. The pre-show jam sessions and band practices. The dirty jokes and pranks and Roger tuning up for the eighth time in an hour. Sometimes Mark would come in and film them. Those had been the good days. Before the drugs. Before the fights. Before the girls. Before Roger's test was positive. Before the band broke up.

Roger finished what he had of the song and looked up. "That's all I got. It any good so far?"

Tristan nodded, "Ya man. That was awesome. It'll be even better once you put the words to it."

Rog smiled. "Thanks Trist. For everything. Well, I better head out. None of the others know I'm home yet."

Tristan nodded, "It's cool. Ya, you should go. God knows Cohen will have your head if you keep him waiting. Just don't be a stranger, ok? Drop by anytime. Maybe we could get the guys together and hang out sometime."

Roger nodded and waved goodbye to his friend before hurrying back out to his car.

He stopped at the Food Emporium to get some groceries. Just the basics that all Bohemians need to survive: sugary cereal, some fruit, band aids, a lighter, coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He had just enough money to pay for it, even with a little left in his pocket. One good thing about Santa Fé is that the street performers can get paid really well.

Roger hopped in the car and drove to the loft. He'd originally thought of selling the thing, but decided it may still prove useful in the future. Driving was faster than walking, and it allowed you to take more with you. It was also a good investment. If they ever needed money desperately, they could easily sell it then. It was fairly fuel-efficient. If it ran out of gas, he could just hawk it off for the parts or siphon off another vehicle. To Roger, keeping the car sounded like a good plan.

Rog pulled up to the building and sighed contentedly. He was home. He smiled and unpacked his stuff from the car. He didn't have much, so Roger was able to carry it all in one trip. Guitar in one hand, duffel bag over his shoulder, grocery bag in the other hand. He walked in the door and up the stairs.

When he reached the loft, he fumbled slightly with his key before unlocking the door. Roger still had his key. The fact that he did was a simple testament to how little he really committed to Santa Fé. New York and the loft were home. This was also the reason he didn't feel like he had to knock before he came in. In hind sight, he should have.

The second he entered the loft, he saw it. He saw him. His smile disappeared, his expression morphing to one of shock and horror. The grocery bag slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor. The sound snapped him out of his frozen state. He gasped as he hurried forward.

"MARK! NO!"


	2. Home Alone-Mark

It had been a month. Roger had left him a month ago. Angel had been dead for more than a month. Mimi had disappeared to rehab a month ago. Mark had been basically alone for a month.

Maureen and Joanne were technically still there, but they were never...there. They were together, off god knows where, too busy to be around when Mark needed them. Benny was slowly coming back to them, but he was still not quite there yet. Allison's father still held power over him. Eventually Benny might get free, but not yet. Collins was still grieving his lover's death. He and Mark had met up a few times, but with Mark's schedule with Buzz-line and Collins spontaneous nature, they didn't really get to see much of each other. Last week, Collins too had went away, saying something about finding a job of his own. No one was around enough to see it. None of them noticed that Mark was slipping.

He'd started as a kid. His parents had never known. He'd done it for years and years. That was, until April had died. The day before that, Roger had found out about it. He'd found Mark's collection. He had run out of the loft in disbelief, anger, horror, and many other emotions Mark had never asked him to name. He hadn't returned that night. The next day, he'd called to say he'd found April dead in her bathtub. That night they'd held each other and comforted each other. That night, they'd made a pact. If Roger would try to get clean, Mark would too. Roger from drugs. Mark from cutting.

It had been hard on both parts, but they'd done it. Mark and Roger had both gone through the loft with Collins help and gotten rid of all of each other's temptations. All was thrown away or locked away. After that, they'd been each others support. When Roger was begging for a hit, Mark was the one who distracts him and made sure he stayed in the loft. On the rare occasion Mark needed to shave, Roger hovered over him and made sure that was all he was doing. When Roger was sick, Mark held back the rocker's quickly growing hair. Roger would usually cut his hair regularly to keep it punk rock short, but was growing it out for Mark's sake, as he saw having the shears in the loft was not smart. When Roger woke up screaming from a nightmare, Mark was instantly there to hold him and hush him and lull him back to sleep. When either Mark or Roger broke a glass or something, Roger was instantly there to clean it up, getting rid of the sharp dangerous pieces and shards as quickly as humanly possible. They got through it together, and in the end they did it. They both kicked their habits and moved on.

It was shortly after Angel's funeral that it happened. It had truly been an accident the first time it happened. Mark had been fiddling with his camera as always, when his hand caught a sharp edge. He pulled away instantly. As he looked down at his injured palm, he felt something he shouldn't. He felt better. He felt good. The familiar sting of pain was like an old friend. He watched on sick fascination as the blood slipped gently to the surface and slid gently down his hand and fingers. He waited a few minutes before dealing with the wound. He washed it out and bandaged it up. It was shallow enough he didn't need stitches. He dealt with it and went on with his day. Yet, in the back of his head, he knew this was just the beginning. He'd felt the release cutting gave him again. There would be more cuts. He would do what Roger had been strong enough not to. He was relapsing.

Mark would be slightly ashamed to admit it, but he didn't try to resist. Roger was gone. He had no one left to hold him back. No one to keep his promise to. He had kept his promise technically. They had both agreed to try to quit. Never had they actually said anything about staying that way. It was just expected that they would. If those thoughts ever came, the other would stop them. With Roger gone and Collins grieving, Mark had no one to stop him. He couldn't stop himself. He needed someone else to tell him no. He felt torn inside. Part of him wanted to keep doing this. Keep hurting himself. Keep having this form of release. Yet, part of him was crying out for help. He wanted to get caught. He begged for someone to notice. He needed someone to stop him. He prayed for someone to save him from himself.

The scars collected. He started to stockpile sharp objects again. He went on with life, hiding and flaunting his secret obsession at the same time. He'd always worn long-sleeved T-shirt , so there was no change to be noticed there. Plus, it was winter. Warm clothes made sense. He kept his tools in a box under his bed. Not exactly hidden, but not in plain sight. He only cut when he was alone, but never did anything to hinder someone walking in on him. He wore his usual mask, but didn't build it as strong as he would've before. He tempted fate as far as he dare, practically challenging the world to see. Waiting for someone to call him out of his lies. No one did.

What started with an accidental cut quickly escalated. He scratched with paper clips. Later, he nicked himself with kitchen knives. He started to save broken pieces of broken glasses, mugs, and bottles, using them later. Then, finally, he really committed to it. A few days before, he went out and bought a proper razor blade. The fact that he even owned one now showed how deep he'd sunk. How badly he needed to be pulled out of his darkness. But then...he used it.

He sat on the couch, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow. In his hand, he held the blade. He basked in the feeling of the cold metal between his fingers. Softly, he place the sharpened edge to his forearm. Slowly, he dragged it across his skin. He lost himself in the familiar pain that came. Yes, physical pain to focus on made the world of anguish he lived in disappear for a bit. He watched intently as the blood bubbled to the surface.

He was so entranced, he didn't hear the door being unlocked. He didn't notice as it slid open. As he put the blade to his arm to make another slash, he was startled at a sudden crash. It snapped him out of his zone just in time to hear a familiar voice.

"MARK! NO!"

He looked up in disbelief to see that which he never thought he would again. Roger. His brother. He was running towards Mark, a look of pure horror on his face. He was home. Finally, Mark was being saved.


End file.
